Two brave men take an afternoon stroll down Calle Ocho -- with a coffee break at every single cafe cubano joint along the way

Big mistake. My legs felt heavy and rubbery. I ambled around the neighborhood lethargically for half an hour or so before collapsing onto my front lawn. My perspiration, which usually has no discernible odor (none to me, at least), was incredibly rank. Even my dog, Trigger, who always tries to lick my arms and legs when I come home sweaty, kept his distance.

Back at work on Monday, Stan avoided me. When I finally cornered him, he admitted that he, too, hadn't really felt the full effect of the cafe until he got home. He'd argued with his spouse. He'd tried to throw up but couldn't. He hadn't been able to sleep. He hated coffee. He hated me.

I shrugged it off. I knew it had been worth the sacrifice. We had boldly gone where no man had gone before. We had tested the limits of human endurance. We had saved a human life and radically challenged modern medical science's understanding of the link between caffeine and blood pressure. We had insulted a street vendor on his home turf and lived to tell the tale. What were nausea, lack of sleep, and a little marital discord in the face of these accomplishments? I knew Stan would someday thank me when he was able to see the big picture.

Bienvenido a Miami, buddy.

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